


The Triple Crown

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Genderfuck, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Magic Revealed, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Penetrative Sex, POV Morgana, Pegging, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Pregnancy, Secrets, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual exploration, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage (puberty/post-puberty), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur may be Merlin's destiny, but he's belonged to Morgana since he was fourteen.</p><p>(Or, the one where Morgana keeps some secrets and spills others as she bargains, fucks, fights, dirty talks, dreams and fierce-loves her way to a fate and family of her own choosing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE & ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Drawing of The Three](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2089680) by [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves). 



> Alby, this was supposed to be your (2014) birthday present, then your (2014) holiday gift, then your (2015) Happy New Year! pick-me-up. But it seems the fates have decided that it's to be your valentine instead - which I call fitting, as it is gifted with love and no expectations, i.e. you are free to pick out your favourite pieces, lick others and put them back in the box, and tip the nasties into the bin! :-D Or, in Pthon flailspeak:
> 
> **SORRY NOT SORRY HERE IS THE THING I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU AND ALL THE THREESOMES YOU TURNED ME ON TO THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT!!!XOXOXO**
> 
> This fic was inspired by Alby_Mangroves' searingly hot and NSFW lovely [The Drawing of the Three](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2089680), with additional shoutouts to all the creators of the fabulous Arthur/Morgana/Merlin works that came out of the [2014 Summer Pornathon](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Summer_Pornathon_2014/works) (and to [Sophy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophy/works%0A), who wasn't in Pthon but didn't need to be because that's like taking hot-porn-coals to hot-porn-Newcastle).
> 
> A portion of Section 1 was previously written and posted as [In Kind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2070321), my entry for the 2014 Summer Pornathon Week 2 Challenge: Secrets and Lies, which was beautifully podficced by [Sophinisba](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba), available [here at her LJ.](http://sophinisba.livejournal.com/422930.html)
> 
> This is the lovechild of a continuation and a remix. Basically I wanted to take the characters from _In Kind_ and get them to the point where _The Drawing of the Three_ could happen - which I have done in my typical un-straightforward, gratuitous pornytimes and soap opera dialogue fashion. Yay? 
> 
> Please heed the tags/warnings and see the ends notes (SPOILERISH) if you need more information. Not canon-compliant in any way, though it is cheerfully full of canon-typical anachronisms and, from Merlin's arrival on, references to canon adventures (mostly from S1, though I've pulled several later events into this timeline).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a young Morgana's attempt to exploit Arthur's secrets for her own gain turns out much more pleasurable than expected, and a bond is forged that can withstand even Uther's disapproval.

**PROLOGUE**

Morgana never thought to be anyone's ward, anyone's wife. Motherless from age five, she is happy as her father's one and only, son and daughter both. He shares his knowledge of horses, of bargaining and battle strategy and the struggles of the local villagers. Together they canter through ancient woods and gallop across green, windswept hillsides, exploring every inch of the land she is to inherit. From the highest outcropping she fancies she can see smoke from the distant fires of Caerleon, where her father swears that – should she still wish it when she's of age – Annis the warrior queen will accept her fealty and train her as part of her personal guard.

Then one day, a few weeks shy of her tenth birthday, he's sent north, into battle, and doesn't return. She dreams of flying to his aid, of a sword that fells hundreds at one blow and a horse with nostrils of flame. 

She wakes to her nurse telling her that it all belongs to King Uther now – their land, the horses, she herself – and isn't she lucky, too, for her father was a favourite of the king's, and now she'll be raised at court, no doubt as a match for the young prince. 

Arthur, he is called. Sturdy. Fair. Seven and spoilt and as motherless as she. Not the nicest of beginnings.

**ONE**

She resists the idea for years, grieving, resenting the loss of her imagined future, but there is a glare to Arthur, a strong, dazzling aura that clings despite his faults. It draws her to him and irritates her in equal measure. 

She dreams of him and, at sixteen, detests feeling like a pawn. If this is to be her fate, she will have a say in it. She corners him in the stables after a hunt.

"If you will train me as a knight, I'll teach you how to please a lady."

"Morgana!" He looks up, startled, from stroking Llamrei's neck. "Why on earth would I – ?" 

"As a courtesy to your future wife," she cuts in.

He laughs. "And that's you, is it?"

"Well it certainly won't be a fat groom or one of your toadying squires!" She's not thinking as she says it, it's pure spite, but she sees the way his eyes go round before icing over, sees the way his jaw clenches, colour staining his cheeks. 

Oho, she thinks, remembering Arthur at ten, eleven, twelve, watching Uther's stallion let down its massive cock; staring at that thieving kitchen boy being spanked bare-arsed in full view of the court; trying _not_ to stare at the acrobats in nothing but loincloths, skin gleaming with oil. 

Lately, all the bright eyes and bare cleavage in the castle are no match for one word of praise from his favourite knights. 

Aha, she thinks, and just like that her future seems less bleak. There was a tanner in her home village who'd had a friend instead of a wife; she knows there are courtiers who have both.

"Or should I say," she says, pressing in close, "if you will train me as a knight, I will…" 

She whispers the rest in his ear, hears his breath catch, feels him shiver.

"There's no dishonour in it this way," she promises. "No danger. It will be our secret."

They swear on their dead parents' graves.

* * *

It's only her voice at first. Her will. She bribes handsome guards to strip off and wrestle in the courtyard, urging Arthur to watch from his window. She stands behind him and tells him it's all right, that she knows his thing is getting all stiff and red in his trousers.

"Take it out and touch it," she says, "like you do at night, but with eyes open."

Then one time, impatient, she reaches around and takes him in hand. She doesn't expect to enjoy it, but it feels good in her hand and he makes the most gratifying sound, almost as if he's been wounded.

"Ah," he cries, letting go and bracing himself on the window ledge, straining into her grip. "Gods…oh, that's… _Morgana._ "

His naked bottom presses hard against her, and she squeezes her thighs together, giving an experimental thrust. There is a surge of pleasure, of power; by the time he spends in her hand she feels as if there are sparks flying under her skin. 

"Hold," she gasps, clamping her arm around his hips. She shoves her other hand between them and thrusts harder, riding her own fingers cradled in the cleft of his arse. 

By the time she comes he is hard again, flushed as red as he ever gets, and he won't meet her eyes. He is trembling with need. Feeling benevolent, she kisses his shoulder and runs her palms over his hips.

"Go on," she says, rubbing all the wet – his and hers both – into his skin. He surprises her by pressing his left hand over hers, inching it back as he spreads his legs as wide as his fallen trousers will allow. He remembers himself then, jerking his hand away, but it's too late. She knows what he's after.

"I think I shall dress as a boy next time." She reaches to cup and squeeze his tender balls, then trails two fingers up behind, rubbing at all the smooth, sweaty skin, the little pucker hidden away between his legs. Like this, all messy, he feels as slick as a girl. "Borrow a fat pestle and a bottle of oil." 

He groans, now tugging furiously at his prick. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, having something just…here?" She presses a fingertip to his hole, keeps it there as he spurts for the second time.

There must be a way to rig up some sort of harness, she thinks. And perhaps, someday, she'll find them a third, a pretty warm mouth who won't mind going down on his knees and is good at keeping secrets.

* * *

A prick, as it happens – even a mock one – is not so different to a sword. There is more footwork involved in handling the latter, but they both require an awareness of grip, of rhythm and angle of thrust. Morgana's never killed a man in single combat, but she imagines the satisfaction to be similar to that which she feels as Arthur shudders, bearing down on a length of oiled wood. 

There is a place inside him, like a bruise, or the swollen nub of her cunt. He cries out the first time she finds it, shoots seed clear up to his throat, then leaks more onto his belly with every nudge. She's never seen so much spend at once, never smelt it so thick in the air.

After, he looks up at her with the most beautiful eyes, equal parts shame and wonder. 

"Do all boys have…I mean, is that…?"

She smirks, not wanting to admit that she doesn’t know. "Did it feel good?"

"Yes, but – " He breaks off, wincing as she eases the rod from inside him. He immediately reaches down, nudging his spent cock and balls aside and rubbing at himself, prodding his opening with two fingers. She wants to laugh at his earnest expression, the little huff and cant of his hips as one finger goes in and his body instinctively tries clenching round it.

"Never thought it could be like _this_. The knights talk of buggery as if it's something unpleasant."

She shrugs, thinking of how she loves riding, but loathed her first with Uther after coming to court. "Anything's unpleasant if it's not what you want to be doing. Or with whom."

He puzzles over this for a moment, fingers going still. "Is it odd to want it then, as much as I do?"

"Who cares?" She tosses the rod onto his discarded trousers and lunges up the bed, leaning over him to press their foreheads together. Her hair's come loose from its knot; it falls down, framing his face. 

"With me, you are safe," she reminds him. "We can do as we please."

"Our secret," he whispers solemnly. Then his gaze slides to her hanging breasts, and his mouth quirks up at the corners. "Uh oh." He cups one breast with his free hand and jiggles it. "I think they've got bigger again. At this rate you'll need special _girl_ armour."

She rears back, slapping his hand away. "Well," she says, digging her fingers into his sides, "it just so happens that I've got a blacksmith's daughter for a maidservant, lucky me!"

She gets him just under the ribs, tickles him until he's snorting with laughter and trying to curl up like a hedgepig.

* * *

She likes the noises he makes, the startled grunts and choked-off pleas; how his straining thigh or taut backside feels rubbing against her sex; his fascination with all of her dark hair. He'll stroke it if she lets him, pet the down beneath her arms or the mound of curls between her legs – so long as he doesn't stick his fingers inside her. Nothing goes inside her. That's one of the rules.

She likes kissing his body, but not his mouth – doesn't like the taste of his spit. He likes to wrestle, to have his balls fondled and bottom squeezed, to be held tightly as he pulls himself off. He likes her stories, too.

She tells him of boy whores and warrior-companions, the legends of princes so fair they drove men mad with longing. She tells him that King Alined couldn't keep his eyes off him at the feast, that Morris grows hard while changing his bed linens, that if he fills a jar with his seed, Sir Cador will rub it all over his face, believing it will make him young again.

One of their favourites is when she tells him that the groom has a tiny prick, the size of her little finger, but that his balls have swollen to the size of her tits. 

"How they ache, sire," she says, turning on her side, running her pinkie over his lower lip. "Won't you make them feel better?"

Eyes closed, Arthur leans in, exploring her finger and breasts with his mouth, reverently licking and sucking them in turn until her cunt's wet and his throat's convulsing around the idea of swallowing all that warm come.

Then, one hot day, she picks up a sweat-soaked shirt from the training ground and rubs herself down with it before sneaking into Arthur's chambers. 

"It was Ranulf's," she says, splaying herself on his bed.

He goes wild for her then, pushing his face in where only his hands have been before, trying to lick the knight's stench off her. Between the firm ridge of his nose and his eager tongue, she's there before she's ready for it, crying out in surprise as her climax shudders through her, her cunt mashed against his face.

When she has the breath for it, she sits up, sees where he's spent himself on the sheets – sees her own wetness smeared on his chin.

"Did I hurt you?" he says.

"Gods no." She slips a hand between her legs, holding tight to the fading sensation, already calculating how often she can get away with raiding the knights' dirty washing. She rubs a toe in the damp patch by his groin. "Were you touching yourself?"

He shakes his head, wipes his face. "It just happened. I… I like how you taste down there."

"You mean you like Ranulf," she says, using her toe to try and smear his thigh with his own spend. He grabs her ankle and twists away, and soon they are grappling and kicking at one another, using pillows for shields.

She thinks she's won, has him pinned flat and is straddling his chest when he lifts his head and licks her cunt, a single swipe from bottom to top, shockingly warm and good.

He uses her moment's inattention to work his arms free and topple her sideways, diving back between her legs.

" _And_ you," he says between licks, looking up at her with a self-satisfied smile. 

"Liar," she says. But he keeps licking, making little humming noises; Morgana stops fighting him, slumps back on the mattress with an arm flung over her eyes.

"Liar and – _ah_ – a cheat," she says, though she only really means the latter. Especially when she feels his fingers creeping up around her nub and his tongue slipping lower and lower.

"Can I?" he whispers, and she doesn’t think about it, _can't_ when it's already this good but threatening to be better. She parts her legs wider, lifts her hips and lets his tongue slide further down, until he is licking her bottom – until he is licking her _hole_ – moaning like it's drizzled in spiced honey, and she thinks she might actually love him.

* * *

By eighteen, she has grown fully into her woman's body. She proudly wears her new corset armour, adapts the stances and strategies Arthur's taught her to suit her frame. For a time they are more evenly matched than he cares to admit. 

Then, almost before her eyes, he transforms, growing taller, broader. Thicker hair on his chest and legs, a sharper scent to his sweat, his once-supple limbs padded with sturdy cords and planks of muscle. Where sheer strength or speed is involved, he bests her with ease; more and more she must rely on strategy and cunning.

More and more, their sparring draws the attention of the other knights, admiring looks from onlookers and – inevitably, it seems – Uther's disapproval.

"I'll have no more of this nonsense," he says one night at supper, issuing the command between bites of pheasant in that way he has, calm, but about as casual as a knife to the throat, that means he expects no argument.

Morgana strangles her utensils, but forces herself to smile. "Why ever not?"

Uther dabs his chin, looking pointedly at her bruised cheek. "Isn't is obvious, my dear girl. With Arthur coming into his full strength, I fear for your safety."

"Her safety is precisely why you should let me continue to train her, Father."

They both stare at Arthur. He almost never takes her part in public; at court they've grown as famous for their verbal sparring as their bouts on the grass. She frowns, but Arthur won't meet her eye; he keeps his attention focussed on his father, gestures casually with his goblet. 

"If she was attacked by, say, bandits in the forest – or god forbid the castle was ever breached – would you not want her to be able to defend herself?"

"I'd like to think my men – "

"But if they were overwhelmed, or became separated – "

"Be that as it may," Uther says, voice rising, "if _you_ wish to improve, you can't be wasting your time with inferior opposition, especially not a woman. It's unseemly."

Morgana stands abruptly, cutting off Arthur's protest. Her face feels as if it's on fire; there's an itching pressure beneath her skin, like she’ll spill out of it if she doesn't get away. 

"You are right, of course, my lord. Arthur must learn to best champions, and that is a fate I've been denied. I will seek a more appropriate sparring partner."

She leaves the room without once looking back, can hear them resume their bickering as the stone-faced guards close the doors behind her.

* * *

He comes to her chambers that night, something they've never risked before. Her anger, not much abated, flares to full life at the sight of him. Once he's inside with the door firmly bolted she whirls to face him, shoving at his stupid plank of a chest.

"I don’t need you to fight my battles with Uther."

"Morgana – "

"You're as bad as he is, speaking of me as if I'm not there. And as if my only motive in this is to protect my bloody virtue! I am a knight in all but name now and you – "

"I know, I know." He catches hold of her wrists, and she hates, _hates_ the easy strength of his grip.

"I _will_ crush your balls as soon as pet them, Arthur Pendragon…"

"Just listen to me, please." He releases her as he speaks, backing away with hands raised. "I didn't come here to argue. I wanted to tell you that we can still train, if you like. In private. Nothing has to change."

She sees the way his eyes dart around her chambers; they are smaller than his own, dominated by her bed with its gauzy curtains. He's trying not to look at it. She's not sure whether she wants to laugh or strike him again.

"You're worried that if you can't uphold your end of the bargain, I'll no longer bed you."

"No! That's not… " He drops his hands, clenching into fists. "He's wrong about you. You fight differently than the others, and I know you'll never go easy on me. I need that, Morgana. And _yes,_ of course I want you – gods, you know there's never been anyone _but_ you, but if you want to stop, I wouldn't…"

He breaks off, bowing his head. He seems utterly defeated. It's this, as much as his speech, that lances her anger, letting all the pressure escape. She looks at him, really looks, from his fair head down to the worn tips of his favourite boots – the ones he will not let Morris touch – and sees what she's been missing: This new body of his is not the betrayal she's imagined. 

In public she may have to increasingly ignore him, leaving him to the world of men; they may have to train in the old siege tunnels and tryst behind locked doors, but she can still rouse him with mere words, conquer with a touch. She knows every inch of his body, not least of all the heart and mind that drive it. He is still _hers._

She closes the distance between them, reaching for his face. She takes it in both hands and draws it down, forehead to forehead. 

"I fear I'll never want to stop," she says. She kisses his cheek, letting one hand trail down – letting herself enjoy the bold new shape of him, instead of battling it – before cupping him between his legs. He is already hard for her.

That night she dreams that they are riding – racing – across an open field with their cloaks streaming out behind. The sunlight glints off his mail, her vambraces, the surface of a lake off in the distance. From behind them comes the thunder of hoofbeats, the cries of men and the baying of hounds. She doesn't know whether they are the lead in a larger pursuit or the pursued, but it's of little concern. No one can outrun or overtake them, for they have no equal.

* * *


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana comes of age but it's Arthur who gets to have all the tournament fun (until after dark), their relationship enters a new stage, and she begins to think of their future.

**TWO**

No one save Gwen asks Morgana what she wants for her twenty-first birthday. Arthur gives her a dagger with a handle he's carved himself, Uther a choker of silver and precious stones. Officially, her coming-of-age is marked by a tournament that she's not allowed to compete in, a week of onerous feasts. All the preening noble sons for miles around flock to Camelot, and she worries that Uther may have other plans for her.

She and Arthur spy on their arrival from his window, he still only half-dressed, his yearning writ all too plain for her knowing eyes. He doesn't like her to speak of it these days, rarely asks for her dirty stories, but she knows that that's just him warring with himself, working through all the pressure Uther puts him under.

"It's not wrong, what you want," she says, peering over his shoulder. "Merely inconvenient, given who you are. Say the word and I'll find – "

"What I _want_ is to prove myself," he cuts in. "To win."

"Ah, well in that case…" She draws the ribbon from her hair, snugs and knots it round his waist then – on a whim, sticking her tongue out at the back of his head – ties a small bow. She smooths the ribbon's trailing ends over the rounds of his arse, gives it a pat. 

"You fight for us both, my champion. Do try to stay in one piece. I've plans for that at the end of the week."

* * *

Many of the competing knights are handsome; a few are even clever. She greets them all with a smile at the welcoming ceremony, endures their attentions by thinking of how she might take them apart, whether with a sword, her fingers, or her trusty wooden rod. She tries to imagine them on all fours, in Arthur's bed, between his sturdy thighs, nursing at his cock and presenting themselves to her like dogs in heat. 

None of them are quite right, though. Too coarse, too proud, too ingratiating. She resents them, feels left out and dissatisfied, even in her own fantasies, and her thoughts inevitably circle back to Arthur himself.

He's admitted that it's not the same anymore, touching himself without her. That he prefers to keep chaste on the nights she doesn’t come to him. She keeps telling herself she'll stay away longer this week, this month, this year, just to see how desperate he gets, but he is nothing if not disciplined, and she cannot resist being his release.

From the corner of her eye she charts his position in the queue. Four men down, then three, two, one. She puts on her best indifference and all two years plus of her seniority.

"My lady."

"And what will I bid you, then?" she says, holding her hand up to be kissed. "A welcome hardly seems necessary."

"Wish me luck." There is a spark in his eyes, part conspiracy, part genuine warmth. It's hard not to be charmed by it. "Not that I need it." 

She resists rolling her eyes. Instead, she nods at the remaining queue, saying, "Then I think I shall save it for one of these strapping specimens. A very fine crop this year, wouldn't you agree?"

His cheeks colour, but he doesn't embarrass as easily as he did at fourteen. He gives her one of those wide, infuriating smiles, then presses his lips to her knuckles. "And yet _I_ will win, my lady," he murmurs. "For you."

* * *

All week, Morgana watches him make good on his word. He fights – and bests – men twice his size and of greater experience. He hangs round the tents, basking in their approval, imitating their swagger. Sir Bors teases him for his smooth chin and fine golden hair, Sir Oswald for sporting no lady's favour on his sleeve. She doesn't hear his reply, but it makes the men laugh. 

By the end of the week Gwen tells her the gossip going round is that he's so pure he's never been kissed, that to do so would sap his strength and prowess.

"Arthur the Lily-White, they're calling him in the lists," Gwen says, leaning in between bouts of the final. "He can hardly walk through the grounds without girls trying to waylay him. The other knights' squires are putting them up to it."

Morgana laughs so long and so well she fears she'll wet herself. It doesn’t erase the injustice of being confined to the stands, but it unsettles Uther, makes him frown and squirm like an eel in front of his guests, so that's something. 

Gwen is too kind to pass it along, but Morgana knows the gossip about herself, as well. The Cod Knight, some men are calling her now, or My Lady of the Dagger. Cold. Unnatural. Half-mad. She will not make it easy for Uther to marry her off to some second son or petty lord, if that is now his design.

* * *

"Congratulations," she says once Gaius and the servants have been and gone. Arthur starts, but doesn't go for his sword. It's not the first time she's hidden behind his changing screen. 

"Thank you." He winces as he reaches for the flagon and fills a second goblet. His lip's no longer bleeding, but his smile is lopsided, and he has a terrific lump over one eye. "Did I not tell you I would win?"

"You did." She steps fully from her hiding place and crosses towards him, into the light of the fire. She can tell the exact moment he sees. He exhales her name, like a question.

"Do you like it?" With the rod in place, the linen shift she's wearing tents obscenely. She shakes back the sleeves and lifts the hem, exposing the leather harness below. It's Gwen's design, mostly, meant for securing the cloths for her monthly bleeds. Morgana had requested something more substantial, so that she might still train or ride as a man; she'd then taken her new dagger to it.

"Now I'll have my hands free, and I can take you exactly like one of those large, hairy – "

"Morgana!" 

" – knights would do. Sir Oswald, perhaps, or do you prefer the pretty ones? Gareth? Dinadan?"

" _Stop._ Please." He stands, reaching for her shoulders, but she twists away, backing towards the bed.

"I can't be certain whose shift this is, actually, but it reeks of man well enough. If you close your eyes, you can pretend – _ouf!_ "

He rushes at her, grasping her around the middle and tackling her onto the bed. The wooden rod bobs awkwardly between them as they wrestle. He pulls a face whenever it jabs him, and Morgana realises he must be wounded worse than she thought. She gets a thigh between his legs, uses the leverage plus the power of her own fury to flip him. 

When she sees what lies under his shirt, she grows more furious still. Now she knows why she dreamt of blood.

"Has Gaius seen these?" 

"No."

"Why n– _Oh._ " She touches the ribbon. It was the colour of bluebells; now it's stained darker, wrinkled in places and crusted with blood. "Idiot."

"He'd know whose it was. There'd be questions."

Idiot, she thinks again, but she clambers off, tells him to sit up and remove his shirt. She can feel his eyes on her as she retrieves a basin of water and the supplies Gaius left behind, wonders if he finds her ridiculous parading about like this. She gets her answer when she returns to his side.

"I hoped you'd come tonight." His voice is low, ardent. If this isn’t enough, she sees his nostrils flare as she bends over him, and she'd bet anything his prick's fattening up in his trousers.

"I told you I would." 

She tends his wounds in silence. It was unbearable, watching him have all the fun, and just as unbearable watching him take such a beating before he prevailed. There are shallow cuts and heavy abrasions, ugly weals where he's been hit so hard his own armour has marked his flesh, even through the layers of padding. When she goes to cut the ribbon away, he stays her hand.

"Leave it," he says. 

She lifts an eyebrow. 

"For now, leave it." He pulls away from her, brow furrowing. "Before we… There's something I must tell you."

"Very well." She sets the lancet aside. When he says nothing for a long moment, clearly gnawing over his words, curiosity gives way to unease. She gathers Gaius' supplies and returns them to the table, empties the basin of soiled water into the chamber pot, takes a fortifying swallow of wine. 

By the time she returns, he's shrugged his shirt back on and is sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands held over his lap. She stands before him, hands on hips, her tented shift a deliberate provocation. When he still says nothing, she curls her fingers under the rod, the linen bunching and sliding as she begins to stroke it.

"Wait," he says, stilling her hand. 

"Arthur, you're scaring me. What is it?" 

He drops his hand, sighs. "I overheard Father talking with Odin earlier, about your prospects."

"Oh?"

"I know that I'm not of age, but I… " The next bit comes out rushed. "I won the tournament, didn’t I, and my majority is only two years off so I said – I know we've never discussed it explicitly, but I'd assumed – that _I'd_ marry you, of course. Not Odin's son." 

He pauses for a breath, looking up at her with a vexed expression. "He laughed, Morgana. In my face, he laughed, told me that I was being absurd. Said that a childish crush was one thing, but that you aren't meant for me – that I must regard you always as I would a _sister_."

"Did he now?" She feels the word like a claw down her spine. Her heart thumps wildly. "And did he say why?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No, but there's unrest in the north as well as the east now. I guess he's rethinking old promises in favour of new allies."

Morgana has her own suspicions, her own inexplicable dreams. Her thoughts must show on her face somehow, for Arthur's eyes go wide. "You don’t think he _actually_ meant… No, that's impossible."

Morgana barely remembers having a mother, knows next-to-nothing about the woman herself. "Anything is _possible_ ," she snaps. "What do we really know of our parents as women and men?"

"I know he loved my mother more than anything." His chin's out now, lifted in that stubborn Pendragon jut. 

Love, she wants to explain, needn't have had anything to do with it, but she's not sure she's ready for this fight. She's not sure it even matters at this point.

"Yes, he did," she says with a sigh. Then, "Look, do you think we should stop if we aren't to marry? Is that it?"

After the briefest pause – his gaze sliding to bulge in her shift, then back up to her breasts, her face – he shakes his head again. He reaches for her hair, winds a thick lock round a finger and tugs. He swallows thickly. "You?"

"No," she whispers. She presses her palm to the less-damaged side of his face. "Not even if I was your sister."

"Don't, Morgana… You shouldn't say such things." He's visibly flustered, but he sounds more breathless than scandalised, and he responds eagerly enough when she does something she rarely does and kisses him full on the mouth. 

He's not a very good kisser – her fault, perhaps, for not bothering to teach him – but tonight he tastes of strong, sweet wine, and it gets her wet, thinking that he's chosen this over obeying Uther, chosen _her._

"I won't marry Odin's son," she reassures him as the kiss begins to founder. "Nor any of the others. I told Uther I'd rather slit my own throat." 

"You didn't."

"I did, and with my brand-new dagger, too." She eases him back, smiling. "Now, do you wish to rest, oh champion, or may I claim my real present?"

Without a word, he reaches for the cord binding the nearest bed curtain and yanks it free. Grinning, she moves to get the others, freeing the heavy damask. Tonight it feels less a standard precaution and more of a declaration: This is one place in the castle where Uther's shadow cannot reach, where there is no one to deny that they belong to one another as they see fit.

* * *

As Arthur strips, Morgana hikes the shift up over her hips and admires the sight of the smooth, dark wood jutting from between her pale thighs. She'd had to fashion a new piece for the harness, one with a flange to hold it in place. As well as freeing her hands, it also provides stimulation, presses the backing pad right up against her cunt. 

She rocks her hips a little as she coats the wood with thick unguent, thinking, as she had when she'd first tried it on, that she might pleasure herself just like this some time, letting all the extra weight and friction seduce her cunt while she pretends to pull herself off like a man.

Arthur swears under his breath when he catches sight of her, unconsciously squeezes himself. This rod is longer than the other – longer than him, too, if not as thick. Slicked with the unguent it's the same colour as her hair.

"Suits you," he says gruffly, reaching for the pot of unguent.

"Wait, here." She takes his hand, wipes the excess unguent from her fingers to his own, then sits back on her haunches to enjoy the sight of him preparing himself. 

He makes it seem the most natural thing in the world – a quick flip half onto his belly, thighs parted, arse in the air. He supports himself on one elbow, reaches back with his other hand and gives himself a brief teasing, two-finger rub. Then it's a huffed exhale and he curls one in, fucking himself onto it with minute hitches of his hips, trying to push whatever it is they're using as far inside as it will go. A pause, a final twist of the wrist and he's done, wiping his hand off on his discarded trousers; save for the flush on his cheeks and swollen cock, he might as well have just been oiling a whetstone.

He arranges himself on hands and knees, but his arms shake, his muscles clearly spent from fighting. 

"No," she says. "On your side."

He grumbles but obeys. As they readjust she removes the shift completely, wads it up, and pushes it up by his head. She feels the shudder and hitch of his breath, the tension in his thighs as they slot together.

"That's it," she murmurs, squeezing the tip of the rod tightly in her slick fist before guiding it between his cheeks, rubbing in circles until she finds the spot where his flesh gives way. 

As she pushes in, he begins muttering into the wadded-up fabric. She strokes his flank, soothing him like she would a horse. "My champion," she calls him, for once without the usual sarcasm.

Once she is fully seated, she stills for a moment. She tries to slow her breaths, but finds that she's as wound up as he is. She can feel the solid, straining heat of him mashed against her bare breasts, belly, thighs. The slightest motion of her hips moves his as well, that is how tightly they are joined. She's never had him like this, wearing nothing but his bruised skin and her favour.

"My champion," she murmurs again – fiercely, now. She strokes the ribbon at his waist, then grasps the flesh below and begins to roll her hips. " _Mine._ " 

With a gasping cry he shifts his left thigh up and rolls half onto his belly, thrusting his arse back against her, then rutting into the mattress. She moves with him, covering him, propping herself up on an elbow. The soiled ribbon-ends slither to and fro between them as she increases the pace of her thrusts. 

She comes first, riding the rhythmic pressure of fucking him and the pleasant slide of the shearling harness pad, now slick with her own juices. Her cries make him buck and clench. 

"Please…" he grits out. She thinks he's begging her to touch him, but then he says "don't" and "stop," the two words separated by a gasping breath, the heave and roll of his spine, his hands clenching into fists on either side of his head.

She doesn't stop. Her second orgasm is almost a surprise, a quick-cresting wave of energy, that feeling of being molten beneath her skin. Her third comes more slowly, building along with his, the sort of dull, deep ache that she can ignore or grind to a wild, noisy end. She staves it off until he is convulsing under her, stifling his own cries on the shift and pumping his seed onto the mattress.

* * *

She's never completely at ease until she's back in her own bed, but tonight she feels reckless. Boneless, too. They separate but don't move far, sprawling side by side in their damask cavern. She's aware of Arthur's eyes on her, a steady, unflinching blue. She wonders what he sees and, worse, _cares._ She wonders if he's wishing that she had a real cock, or somewhere warm to stick his own, other than her hand. She wonders if he's spooling this out down the years, as she has done on sleepless nights, wondering how long they'll be able get away with it.

"What?" she says crossly when her thoughts becomes too much.

He reaches for a length of her hair and winds it round his palm, over his knuckles. "If I can't take you to wife, I will have none."

"Don't be ridiculous. Who will bear your children?"

Arthur shrugs. "A woman hired to that purpose. Or I will foster them in from one of the noble families. Or I could… " His eyes travel down her body. His free hand hovers over her belly, fingertips brushing the top of the harness belt. "He'd have to let us marry then."

"No," she says quickly, pushing his hand away. "No. You don't mean it. We mustn't." 

But suddenly she can't stop thinking about it, what it would be like to rub the swollen head of his prick all along her sex – how warm it would be, how alive. How easy it would be to slip up, to let him slip _in_ just a little way, just enough to feel her heat and the squeeze of her muscles. And then… 

No more training or riding out as she pleases. She'd be no better than a prisoner at court; her claim on Arthur solidified, yes, but at the risk of Uther's wrath. The child could be taken from her, hidden away; if they do share blood, it might very well be an abomination.

She disentangles her hair from his hand, sits up and begins unbuckling the harness. "No," she says again, firm, final. She prays he doesn't notice how hot her cheeks have become, how stiff her nipples, how wet she is from wanting it – wanting _him_ – still, even when imagining such consequences. 

That night she hears a terrible laugh in her dreams, a wheeze and rattle that deepens, grows louder until it crashes round her ears like thunder. She is trapped in her bed, held down by twists of cloth that bite like chains. There is fire and smoke; she shouts, struggling to reach sword or dagger, but the terrible laugh goes on and on, telling her that those aren't the right weapons.

* * *


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin arrives in Camelot, thoroughly upsetting the status quo where secrets are concerned and expanding Morgana's vision of her future.

**THREE**

She dreams of Merlin before he arrives. Not his exact face, nor his name, but the disruption he brings: a dagger stuck fast in Pendragon oak, in the heart of a chair; shattered glass and spilt wine; serpents in the castle; row upon row of bodies in the courtyard. Uther enraged and Arthur in constant peril.

Her dreams have been more vivid – and often troubling – since her coming of age, but none have been so stark as these. She blames them on the vicennial of the Great Purge, with all the hateful talk and near-daily beheadings; however, she doesn’t know what to make of them until they are happening, and by then it's too late. _He_ is there, this bright-eyed, mouthy new boy Gwen's been chirping about, stuck fast at Arthur's side by none other than Uther himself. 

At first she suspects he is Uther's spy, but Merlin's not in his post a fortnight before she sees how laughable the idea is – just as laughable, apparently, as all Arthur's complaints about his lip and shoddy service.

"So sack him," she suggests one night. His head's resting back on her shoulder, his hair still damp from their exertions. Somehow this has become a thing, her not leaving right away, tempting fate for the sake of the easy, unguarded talk and sexless intimacy of _after_. Lately it's all railing about Merlin, though, and Morgana has had enough.

"I can't just _sack_ him, Morgana. He saved my life. And my father gave – "

"Fine." She flicks his ear. "Pay him off, then. Find him another place and tell Uther he didn't work out." 

He's shaking his head before she finishes. "No, that wouldn't be… No." He pulls away, but only so as to roll over, facing her. The sex flush is fading from his skin, which makes the remaining spots of colour all the more noticeable. The red-pink of his lips and spent, glistening cock; the peaked discs of his nipples; the scrape of rash along his jaw from Merlin's clumsy attempt at shaving him. There is something dear to her about his having such rosy, tender-looking places, regardless of their other associations.

"Wouldn't be what?" she says, curious as to what he'll say.

He opens and closes his mouth, grimaces, opens it again. "Acceptable," he says.

"And why is that?"

He flops onto his back with a huff, grabs his discarded shirt, and begins to wipe himself off. Morgana reaches out with a foot, digging her heel into the meat of his thigh. "I shall have it out of you one way or another, you know I will, so – "

"I owe him my _life,_ all right?" Arthur cuts in. "Yes, he knows nothing of being in service, but he is trying and – oh, I don't know! He's different to the others, don't you think?" He sits up, casting about for his trousers. 

"He's not afraid to look at me, nor to speak his mind. He doesn't care that I'm a prince, owes no allegiance to Camelot, and yet he is loyal. To _me._ I would honour that, is all."

"I see," she says. She withdraws her foot and rolls onto her back, thinking on the fresh flush blooming on Arthur's cheeks and his sudden haste to cover himself. She thinks on how he's been showing off lately at training, on all the times she's looked up from her plate or out a window to see his fair head bent towards Merlin's dark one.

Oh yes, she sees exactly how it is. She's been on guard for so long against those who would expose them or thwart her plans that she's forgot where they are most vulnerable.

* * *

She wants to ignore Merlin or, failing that, to not like him, but she cannot. He is everywhere. He's charming, if naïve, he is good to her and Gwen, and he is undeniably brave. He gets over being tongue-tied in her presence, but his blushes remain, as does that searching way he looks at her sometimes.

She wonders what it is he sees.

When he comes to her for aid in persuading Arthur yet _again_ – this time over the creature that's poisoning their water supply – she wants to shake him, demand to know why he's so certain Arthur will listen to her, why he thinks she couldn't dispatch this Afanc on her own. But Gwen's life is in peril, and saving her comes first.

By the time it is done, her ire has cooled. They work well together, the three of them; she can admit that. Just the right amount of bickering and petty insults to keep the blood up, her fierceness paired with Arthur's determination and Merlin's uncanny instincts. And she sees that she needn't worry so much about Merlin guessing their secret, for clearly he's distracted by one of his own.

Poor Arthur, she thinks, watching him wave Merlin off from tending to him, giving him permission to fetch Gwen's father instead.

"I know what it is you're hiding, Merlin," she says once Gwen's been freed. 

"Oh? Um…"

"Yes. I have eyes." She enjoys watching him squirm for a moment. "Don't worry though, as I'll never tell. But if you ever wish to speak to someone about it…"

His nervous smile wobbles, spreads into something more genuine. "Oh, thank you, _thank you._ You have no idea what a relief that is to hear. Gaius means well, but, he's like a father, so…" He pulls a face, shrugging.

She smiles and leans in, laying a hand on his arm. She notes with a pang that Arthur's given him another of his old shirts, the dye faded to a bruised rose colour. "I fear the old do not remember what it is like – the way it sings in your veins, charges the very air in the room."

" _Yes,_ that's exactly – " His eyes grow round, shining with emotion. "I was not wrong, then. We are alike in this?"

"Oh, I wouldn't put it quite…" She draws back, puzzled. "I love her dearly, you understand, but I wouldn’t say that I am _in_ love. I'm no rival to you at any rate."

"Rival?"

"For Gwen."

"Who said anything about Gwen? I thought you were talking about your _magic._ "

The last word is said in a harsh whisper, but it resounds within Morgana's head like a bell-peal. Aha, she thinks. _Aha._ It takes her a moment to process that Merlin's still talking, at a gallop now, hands waving about.

"…stronger, isn't it, my lady?" he's saying. "I've been sensing it for weeks, knew there had to be somebody else in the castle, besides the dragon, of course, but I didn’t connect it to your nightmares until – "

"The _dragon_?"

"Oh dear." Merlin winces, clapping a hand to his face. "You didn't… Uther never… Of course not. Oh _dear._ " He turns away, turns back, hands now twisting in his hair and ears gone red as beets. He notices the state of her then, his eyes widening at the sight.

And no wonder: she knows she's grinning, yet can feel tears welling in her eyes. She now has a name for the swoop and leap within her breast, the fire beneath her skin, the searing dreams and sense of being at odds with all that men like Uther claim she should desire. 

" _Magic_? I have… I _am._ What am I, Merlin? And who on earth are _you_ , really?"

Merlin takes a deep breath. After checking to make sure they are unobserved, he moves nearer, offering his arm. His expression is concerned, almost shy, but up close she can see the flush along his cheeks, the eager spark in his eyes. Arthur is right. There _is_ something about him.

"If you would come with me, my lady? If you promise to keep it secret, I think there's someone you should meet."

She laughs then. Louder than she should perhaps, but if the guards hear she has Gwen's release as an excuse for her joy. "I think you will find," she says, putting her lips whisper-close to one flaming ear and entwining her arm with his, "that I am very skilled at keeping secrets."

* * *

She doesn't know how Merlin stands it, keeping to the shadows, not spending every waking moment alive to his magic, exploring what it can do. They manage as best they can between their respective duties – mostly at night – but it's never enough for her; as it was when she first picked up a sword, no amount of practice is too much.

She's an old hand at sneaking round the castle by now, but it hurts to lie outright to Gwen about where she goes, and though Arthur will never say anything, he's obviously feeling neglected. By all accounts he's taking it out on Merlin, and there is another source of guilt: between working with her, skivvying for Arthur and routinely featuring in the stocks, she doubts the poor man gets much sleep.

"If he knew," she says one evening, "we would not have to meet like this." She gestures at the rough-hewn blocks with her torch; they are deep beneath the city walls. "I know it may not seem like it at times, but Arthur and I… He'd never betray me, Merlin, and I know he cares for you a great deal."

Merlin secures his torch in a pile of rubble and turns to her, his face drawn into the older, fiercer lines that most people would never dream lay beneath the playful exterior.

"If he knew, my lady, he would be forced to choose sides, and I would not put him in that position."

She studies him as he unslings his satchel and crouches before it, unpacking candle ends and other sundries for the evening's lesson. She thinks of the desperate way he'd looked at Arthur before drinking from the poisoned chalice, of the guiding light Arthur had described in that far-off cave. Of how he flirts with many, but pursues none.

Aha, she thinks, wondering that she did not see it before. It's just as well that Gwen's gone starry-eyed over that new knight, Lancelot.

"You love him," she says.

"You heard the dragon; he's my destiny." It rolls off his tongue too well. He doesn't look up. 

Morgana has one or two choice things to say about the Great Dragon – he had not been pleased to see her, at first, and she still doesn't trust him – but she won't be distracted so easily. 

"Your destiny to keep him alive, yes, and to see him made king, but not to do it with such humility. Nor to care so for his happiness and peace of mind. That's an act of love."

"I hope a happy king will be better than a miserable one. As for the rest…" Merlin pauses, head bowed. He shrugs, but when he lifts his face there is a shy smile curving his lips. He glances up at her, then his eyes skitter away – to her torch, her feet, the passage beyond.

"I am glad to serve him, my lady," he says softly, "as I am to serve you in this. And when you're queen, I hope – "

"When _I_ am queen?" Her laugh bounces back at her off the tunnel walls, brittle and overloud; she can see she's startled him. She puts on her most winsome smile. "Come, come, Merlin. What nonsense is this?"

He flusters so beautifully, so entirely, from his flushed, boyish face right down to his fidgeting toes. He's standing now, hands joining eyes in a panic, unsure where to rest.

"Sorry, only I thought – are you _not_ to marry him then? Gwen did say she hoped… And with the way he… I thought he was going to have my head when he caught me coming out of your chambers last week."

Morgana lets him twist for far too long, stunned, not by his words, but by the idea that's struck her. _He_ is the one, not a rival, but their perfect third, the missing piece of their future. He is already bound willingly to each of them, more than their equal in power if not in rank, and – the thought comes unbidden – he has such a lovely mouth.

"Yes, well…" she says at last, waving off any further apology. "That's Arthur for you. He can be a bit old-fashioned. Though I daresay he was more concerned about your virtue than my own. He knows how I like pretty things."

She does not think it possible for him to get any redder, but he does. He laughs as if it's a grand joke, tugs at his neckerchief, mumbles something about getting on with the lesson. She nods and arranges herself opposite. However, she cannot resist adding, "We both do, Merlin. Perhaps some night we could show you."

For the first time, she successfully summons both bowl and grapes before Merlin manages to get out his counterspell. 

"Um," he says as she closes the distance between them. "My lady, what…?"

She plucks a grape and pops it in his mouth, lets her fingertips linger on his plush lips, pressing to keep him quiet. "You choose to call it service, rather than love. Very well. But you should know that there are other ways you might serve, and that you and I are not the only ones with secrets in this castle."

She tips the rest of the bunch into one of his fumbling palms, presses the empty bowl into the other. "I know you do not care for scrying overmuch, but…"

She whispers the rest in his ear, hears him swallow and gasp, feels him shiver.

"Tonight, at midnight. I promise he'll be thinking of you," she says, nosing at the downy shell of his ear, letting her lips trail over the crest of one cheek. "And I of the two of you together." 

A quick kiss at the corner of his mouth – a tease for herself as much as for him – and she retreats to pick up her torch. She leaves him standing there, gawping at the bowl in his hand, the traces of her lip paint brighter even than the blood flush on his face.

* * *

It's been weeks, she realises as she bolts the door behind her. Arthur is abed, but there are candles guttering in their stands. She bares herself – no harness, no rod this time – and curls along his back, breathing in his heady scent, reacquainting her hands with the shape of him.

He hums, but is otherwise silent until she curls her fingers, scratching across his lower belly, then rubbing her fingertips over the fine trail of hair. She feels his muscles jump, the sharp inhale before he speaks.

"You are well then? I've – "

"Shh," she says, sliding her hand up to his chest and pressing it there, holding him close. They've never made excuses when it comes to this, never asked one another for explanations. He knows her cycle well enough, shares her instincts regarding caution when large numbers of guests are about. As for him, a headshake at dinner, a subtle mark on the door, a darkened room – absent these signs Morgana is always welcome in his bed. 

"Do you still abstain when I'm not here?" She peels back the covers and takes his wrist, tugging until he relinquishes control. She takes the grunt and gusty exhale as confirmation.

"Poor Arthur." She slides his hand down his chest to his stomach, makes him stroke the spot just above where the damp tip of his prick is nudging her wrist. "And with such temptation before you every day. Tell me, have you ever noticed Merlin's hands?"

"Gods, _Morgana,_ what on earth – "

"They could belong to a musician or a poet, but they are strong, are they not? Back in his village he must have milked the goats and churned the butter, same as any other lad, and I've seen how he treats the knights with cramp."

"I wouldn't know," Arthur mutters, but he can't hide the twitch of his cock, nor the change in his breathing as Morgana lifts his hand and pulls it lower. "Now stop your nattering and – "

"Does he do the same for you, I wonder? Rub out all the aches and pains?" 

"What of it? Would you shut up already and… _ah._ " She feels the subtle shift of his hips, his upper thigh sliding back. She cups his hand, feeling and adjusting until he's cradling his balls and the root of his cock, squeezing just enough to make his breath stutter and grow even more rapid.

"But never here, where you need it most."

"Oh _gods_ …" he moans.

"Can you imagine how good that would feel?"

He can, if the noise he makes is anything to go by. She waits, but he makes no further protest, so she continues. She's missed this, the pillow stories she weaves for him, guessing at the fantasies he won’t allow himself to name.

"Or that pretty, sassy mouth of his. He'd be more than willing, I bet; I see the way he looks at you. Bet he touches himself at night thinking about your bare skin, what you must look like when you take your pleasure… wishing he might serve between your thighs as well as at table."

He's begun to tremble. She eases off, taps his wrist with a whispered, "Go on then," and slips her hand down to her own sex; she's been wet since she first caught his scent and felt his warmth on the chilled tips of her nipples. Wetter since she thought of Merlin watching her put Arthur on display. 

"Or perhaps he might do both," she says, dipping two fingers in, pulling the wet up in a slick shiver, then pressing down hard on her nub. "Crawl beneath the table after he has filled your cup, lay his head on your thigh. You wouldn't be able to help yourself. You'd spread your legs, stroke his head like a dog – his hair is the same shade as mine, had you noticed? – and let him nuzzle down there until you're so stiff you can barely breathe."

She closes her eyes and begins to roll her hips, meeting the press of her fingers, squeezing everything tight. She can picture it perfectly. She would be watching, of course, from the opposite chair. She wouldn’t be able to see Merlin but she would know the exact instance he freed Arthur's cock and tongued it into his mouth, suckling it like a fat teat. 

She tells Arthur this as they each find their own pace, how she would enjoy seeing him being taken apart in such a fashion, in glazed eyes and furrowed brow, in the involuntary parting of lips and knuckles gone white round the stem of a goblet. How she'd feign interest in the conversation, but her hand would slip to her lap… 

She switches hands, clamping her left tight between her thighs and rubbing his bottom with her right. She roots between his cheeks with her two soaked fingers, finds his sweaty little clench, feels it grip her fingers before pulling them in. 

"And Merlin, he'd want to touch himself, too," she says. "Would be as hard as I am wet. Have you ever seen him naked? He's such a long-limbed, awkward thing, the Fates have probably seen to it that he's hung like a horse."

Arthur grunts, thrusting back onto her fingers. She twists them as far as her wrist will allow, seeking the spot that makes him lose control.

"Wouldn't it be nice to claim such a prize, to have something fat and warm and alive nudging you just… here? His cock, pushing in, feeling how hot you are, how strong. Soon as he got the tip in he'd be desperate for you. Like a rutting stag, helpless, needing to cover you, to spill. You'd own him then, ruin him for any other… "

She talks until she's gasping and incoherent and he's shaking the bed with the force of his movements. They come recklessly loud, in sharp cries and laboured gouts of breath; after, not even the increased threat of discovery can rouse them. For a long while they remain as they've fallen, panting through the aftershocks.

"Good god, what've you done to me?" he mutters, flinging an arm over his face.

Morgana chuckles, groping for his other hand, squeezing it. She tries to imagine Merlin's face right now, hopes he is as breathless and sticky and full of wonder. 

That night she dreams about his outstretched hands reaching for her breasts, his full lips parting, not to incant, but to welcome her kisses. His mouth is sweet, his tongue clever; wherever they touch their magic thrums along the surface of their skin. Then Arthur is there, burrowing between them, grumbling about the cold and the weight of his crown. Laughing, they hold him close, using hands and mouths to warm one another, polishing the want under their skin to a breathless shine.

* * *


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the men are stubborn but Gwen's a genius, and Morgana's dreams continue to take a turn for the better.

**FOUR ******

She underestimates their stubbornness, the way they cling to their secrets.

"What have you done to me?" Arthur repeatedly mutters. "How am I meant to bathe or dress, to make camp and _sleep_ near him after all the things you've put in my head?"

"Easy," she whispers. "Stop denying yourself and ask him to join us."

But he will not. It's just another pillow story, he claims, and besides, it would be taking advantage of his station. Merlin is his social inferior, his _responsibility._

As she cannot tell him how wrong he is – nor why – she settles for fucking him boneless, milking him dry, tearing off the harness and riding his face until it's shining with a flood of her salty wet. Night after night, daring him to signal for respite.

And Merlin, he watches it all. She knows by his avoidance, and by his discomfiture when he cannot. He goes red, searches for patterns on the floor. He either barely speaks to her or prates on at a tear, using ten words where one will do and making a meal of every task. 

"What have you done to me?" his expression seems to say, and when – two weeks on, after Arthur's nearly been enchanted and drowned thanks to their discord – she barges into his room, she can see the answer. 

It’s a mess, looks as if a storm's been through, but she spots the bowl soon enough, upturned on the floor amidst a jumble of armour and dirty washing. The air reeks of bitter herbs, male sweat and spend.

"Merlin," she says, closing the door firmly behind her. He's leapt up from his makeshift crate table, ink dripping from the point of a quill. "I meant it as an enticement, not a nightly distraction – nor a torment. Arthur needs you at your best, so say your piece, ask me whatever you like. Then you must either join us, or stop watching."

He rakes a hand through his untidy hair, scrubs it over his face. In the harsh morning light she sees the feverish circles beneath his eyes. "But you can't possibly want… And _he_ would never… Not with me."

"For all you are wise in magic, you are an oblivious man." She crosses towards him, removes the quill from his slack fingers and plants it back in the inkpot. He's practically against the wall as it is, so it's a simple thing to reach up and capture his face, soothing those bruised-looking crescents with her thumbs.

"He hasn't shut up about you since the day you arrived. Merlin this and Merlin that – and you should have seen how fierce he got when Uther was prepared to let you die."

"He's a good man – "

"Who comes hardest when I whisper _your_ name in his ear and hates to let you out of his sight!"

"But he can hardly bear my touch! Won't let me wash his back, throws things rather than hand them – "

"Because he _wants_ you, you fool." She has to resist the urge to shake him, to laugh in his face. Surely things weren't that different in his village; surely he knows that not all men woo with flowers and pretty lies.

"Yes, he is stubborn, and no, he won't cross the line – would see it as an abuse of his power – but it doesn't mean he's not mooning out a window this very moment wishing that you would erase it!"

"Oh gods, I…" Merlin whimpers and closes his eyes, swaying into her touch. She exhales the rest of her irritation and pulls his head to her shoulder, stroking his hair.

"He may be your destiny, Merlin, but he's belonged to me since he was fourteen. We… " She feels his hot breath against her neck, the quivering tension in his spare frame. She's never tried explaining it aloud, never felt the need to. Somehow, she thought that if Merlin could just _see,_ he would understand. But there's years of history there, layers of meaning; what started as a bargain in kind has become much, much more.

"We've chosen this," she says at last. "We _choose_ each time – one another, how we are together. If you want no part in it, tell me, truly, and I'll never mention it again, but do not presume to speak for him. Not in this."

"And you, my lady?" he whispers. "Do you only want me for him, or…?" Tentatively, he brings his arms up around her waist, keeping a careful distance between their lower bodies. 

Aha, she thinks. Aha. She smooths a hand down his back, skates it up under the hem of his jacket and finds one firm, rounded buttock. "I dream of you," she says, because it's the truth.

She kisses his earlobe, his downy neck. His skin is so soft here, just below the angle of his jaw. She can feel his pulse leaping, and finds that hers is as well. She's not sure whether she pulls or he pushes – maybe a little of both – but soon enough he's crushed against her and there, as suspected, is the proof of his arousal. 

"I dream of your mouth on me, in every way his has been…and more. I want you inside me, Merlin. Your tongue, and your hands. Your cock – gods, your very _magic._ "

She could bear that, she thinks, moving against him, tensing her belly against the hardness pressed there. To be awash in his gratitude, flooded with his magic for the sake of an untainted heir. She's not so terrified of confinement as she once was, knows she'd be welcome amongst the Druids if they had to hide the pregnancy from Uther. 

Merlin shudders against her, then draws back suddenly with a wet, strangled sound. His eyes dart around the wrecked room.

"Merlin?"

"No, oh _no_ …" he mumbles, mashing his face into his hands. "My la – _Morgana,_ my magic." He drops his hands, stares at them as if he's never seen them before.

"I can’t control it very well when I'm…um. Don't think I could hide it from him."

"So _don't_ ," she spits out. 

She leaves before she says or does something she regrets. And before she has to listen to another lecture on why Arthur mustn't be forced to forsake one loyalty for another, to carve his heart into warring pieces, when it is what she and Merlin – and now Gwen, too, with Lancelot banished from the city – are forced to do every damn day. 

Sleep does not come easy that night. When it does she dreams of a black-haired child, playing with a large egg like a single tear, as blue as his eyes. She dreams of a crown that pulses with light, writhes as if it's a living thing as she and Merlin lift it from Arthur's head. When the light fades they're holding three distinct bands of burnished copper, silver, and gold. She wakes with the weight, the warmth of them still in her hands, and is startled to find nothing there.

* * *

Merlin waylays her after breakfast. Deep alcove, deserted corridor, and a spell to make them seem as shadows to anyone glancing up at the windows. 

"Merlin? What is it?"

He presses something into her hands, takes her by the shoulders and – after a brief hesitation, his eyes searching hers – moves in for a kiss. It's like un-watered wine, a slow burn down to her very core, head muzzy and groin muscles pulled tight. All good, sweet pressure and a careful tongue, just the tip offered for her to chase. Lips softened with beeswax, and he's clearly been chewing sweet herbs. All for this. All for her.

She lets out a soft moan as she arches against him. She feels warmth blooming on her skin and a wind stirring her skirts, hears the windowpanes rattle. She's not sure who's doing it, but in the moment she doesn't care. Let the windows break, she thinks.

He pulls away far too soon for her liking, eyes bright and troubled. 

"Please, my lady. I do want this and I _will_ tell him, but you must let me choose the right time. Until then…" He pauses for a swallow of air and takes a step back from her, eyeing the windows with mistrust. "Until then, I remain your humble servant. And tutor, should you wish it, but no more. I couldn't face him if we… It's…" He shakes his head, bites his lip.

"One secret too many?" she says. She can see she's right by the relief on his face, which is soon followed by resignation. She thinks to tell him of her dream – perhaps not the child, not yet, but about the wondrous crown – but he's already edging out from the alcove.

He nods at the bundle in her hands. "Your nights are your own. You have my word."

He's gone before she unwinds the cloth. It's only a gesture, of course, and she's already guessed what she'll find, but she's never shied from probing a wound. There's a perverse satisfaction in seeing the jagged edges where he's split the scrying bowl in two, the wood seared and crumbling. Far more difficult, she imagines, for Merlin to destroy the images he's seen.

* * *

And so they go on with their labyrinth of secrets, all through the summer and early autumn. 

By day she is the eccentric king's ward, the noble lady who often rides out dressed like a man and is known to be sympathetic to the plight of those in the lower town. Her nights she spends as she chooses, some in Arthur's bed or down in the old siege tunnels, going at it with flails and quarterstaves until they collapse in a panting, sweaty heap. Some nights she studies with Merlin – often with Gaius serving as an unwitting chaperone – and some she spends on her own or with Gwen, rubbing sweet oil into one another's hair and plotting how they would re-make the world if anyone had the good sense to give them charge of it.

It's on one such night that she, lulled by the wine and easy conversation, finds herself slipping, whispering the spell to warm the oil in her hands, catching the golden flash of her eyes in the glass. 

Gwen's eyes go very wide, but she doesn't gasp, doesn’t run. 

"My lady?" is all she says, holding Morgana's gaze. So she confesses. Not all – there are some things that hardly need to be spelled out to one who's known her for so long, who's tended both her body and her possessions – but enough.

Gwen listens with worried eyes. Frowns. Laughs. Frets for the lot of them.

"Always the thorny path for you," she teases. Then she says, "Merlin I knew about. Not at first, but I've had my suspicions since my father's recovery, and Lancelot confirmed them the night he left. Asked me to keep an eye on Merlin, make sure he didn't get into any trouble with Arthur."

They laugh over that, pour fresh cups of wine, weigh the odds of Arthur admitting his feelings for Merlin outright against those of Merlin confessing his magic. They don’t speak of their fear that they'll all wind up in the dungeons or on a pyre first.

"Now, about that crown you saw…" Gwen says, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. She fetches quill and parchment. "Show me?"

Morgana sketches it as best she can, both as it had appeared on Arthur's head and after it had split, and hands it over. Gwen studies it from all angles, eyes growing keen. She hums to herself.

"You recognise it? I can't find mention of it in any of Gaius' books or the royal archives."

Gwen shakes her head. "No, and I can’t quite see how you'd join them up if the bands are truly solid. But." She passes the sketch back. "If anyone could forge such a thing, it would be my father."

Morgana stares at her. Magic, she thinks, nearly laughing aloud, because _of course._ And of course it is Gwen who's unwittingly solved the puzzle. There are no records of such a crown because it doesn't exist…yet.

"Gwen, you are a genius."

"Surely not, my lady."

"To me, you are." Morgana pulls her into an embrace. "You deserve every happiness, and I swear to you, Lancelot will not be banished from Camelot forever. I will ride out and fetch him for you myself the day Arthur becomes king."

"Oh! I… Was it that obvious?"

Morgana pulls back, giving Gwen a knowing smile. "Now, if I could get you the raw metals, would you speak to your father? Just the three separate bands for now, and not a word to anyone. If he's questioned he can say it's a commission for the prince's birthday."

That night she dreams of a round table, big enough to fill the throne room. There are several children playing around and under it – one pale as milk and the others nut-brown – laughing and shrieking as they belly-crawl to get away from whatever's chasing them. When she bends down, she sees a white dragon the size of a yearling hound wheeling in dizzy circles. It's wearing what seems to be one of Merlin's neckerchiefs over its eyes.

* * *


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana's a BAMF and Hunith and Will get cameos, as they should.

**FIVE**

Gwen's knowing makes the wait easier, but there are still days when Morgana heartily wishes to give both Arthur and Merlin a good slap and drag them beneath her skirts.

Surely this time, she thinks after every close scrape – surely _now_ – after watching them tussle like pups or make hot eyes at one another across a campfire. Their devotion to one another is there for Uther and all the knights to see, the Great Dragon's prophecies are growing increasingly, if metaphorically, obscene, and she is _trying_ to be patient, but she's tired of making do with dreams and shades conjured from lusty whispers and borrowed clothes. 

She's tired of having to choose between them.

* * *

It comes to a head in – of all the unlikely places – Merlin's home village of Ealdor. A foul brigand has declared all-out war, apparently not content with leaving them to starve through the winter. 

It's bad enough, knowing that if Arthur hadn't tagged along she and Merlin might have dealt with the situation on their own, with far less human cost, but Morgana's also forced to spend her nights, each one of which might be her last, cooped up in a cottage with the pair of them. 

She tosses and turns in Hunith's bed, seething with frustration while they murmur by the fire. She cannot go to Arthur as she wishes – as she normally would on the eve of any tourney or battle – nor speak freely with Merlin about what he and Will keep slipping off to argue about, what he might have up his sleeve. Even here, in another kingdom, they're all living under Uther's shadow.

She sleeps poorly, wakes angry, has no trouble whipping up fire or fighting to kill. Then, in the thick of the battle, she finds herself fighting back to back with Arthur. They are holding their own, but the villagers are flagging, and out of the corner of her eye she can see more and more of Kanen's men pouring over their makeshift defences, a foul, unceasing tide.

Go away, she thinks, spotting an opening and driving her blade deep between her assailant's ribs. 

_Go away and burn, until your bones are nothing but ash for their crops._

There is a split second where her sword's falling away from her, stuck fast in the brigand's chest; she hears Arthur's cry of alarm as another rushes in to take his place, her own thundering heartbeat, Merlin yelling her name. Then there's a sensation of terrible heat under her skin, a sound like wind in her ears, the far-off screams of burning men and panicked horses, and she realises: It is actually happening. 

She is making it happen.

* * *

She wakes to Arthur's voice, furious and full of spit, rising until it's a barking shout.

"…magic like that, in Camelot. What were you _thinking_ , Merlin? Are you insane? You could've both been killed!"

"No, Arthur, you must believe me, that wasn't – "

There's a clatter and a soft splash. A third voice, Hunith's, breaks in with, "Merlin, hush! Please, I know you have much to speak about, but these two need their rest. If you would just step outs– "

"I'm not leaving her."

Morgana would smile at Arthur's tone, can well imagine the crossed arms and jutting chin that go along with it, but her face aches – her whole body aches, in fact. She feels as if she's been at the mercy of Camelot's washerwomen, paddled in a vat of lye soap and beaten against hot stones.

Wincing, she opens her eyes, recognises by the bundles of herbs over her head that she's back in Hunith's bed.

"Of course, sire. Merlin, perhaps you could go fetch – "

"He's not leaving either. I'm sorry, Hunith, but no one is going anywhere until my… until the Lady Morgana has recovered. And Merlin, you'd best pray she does, or – "

There's a weak snort. "Why? So you can drag them back to Camelot and chop off their heads?" 

"Will! Stop, you shouldn't be – "

"No, I'm sorry, Merlin, but he needs to hear this. We'd all be dead – or worse – without her and he knows it. I don’t care how starry-eyed you are over him, I'm not letting him murder – "

"How _dare_ you," Arthur breaks in. 

Morgana tries turning her head and finds she can, just. She sees Will propped up on a pallet near the bed and Arthur stalking towards him, eyes looming large and wild in his soot-stained face. She drinks in the sight of him as she does after any battle, scanning limbs, counting fingers.

"You know _nothing_ of this," he says hotly, "nothing of any of us, and if I didn’t owe you my life I'd – "

He catches sight of her.

"Arthur." It's more mouthed than spoken. Her lips are dry; her tongue tastes of ash. 

For a split second she imagines his face going blank, is gripped by the old nightmare of being trapped, imprisoned in a bed, watching him walk away. She tries to sit up but her limbs won't obey, so she tries calling to him again. 

In a stumbling rush he's at her side, climbing half on the bed to peer into her eyes. Then he buries his face against her neck, clutching her shoulder, clumsily stroking her hair. 

"Thank the gods," he murmurs. "Thank the bloody gods. Thought I'd lost you."

With some effort she lifts a hand, cups the back of his head and presses him to her as tightly as she can, despite the ache. He smells of smoke and sour sweat. He is shaking, and she can feel the wet of his tears on her skin.

She's dimly aware of the fuss going on around them, Hunith insisting everyone clear out, Will's, "But I thought you said I needed _rest_."

"Merlin," she says, her voice no more than a husk of breath at Arthur's ear, but he hears her and understands.

He lifts his head. "Merlin," he calls, without looking round. "She needs water, something for her throat."

Once the others have gone and she's downed what Merlin's brought her – an herbed water that she's fairly certain he's heated with magic – she pats the bed on the side opposite from Arthur. 

"Come," she whispers. "Yes, come, it's all right. Give me your hand."

He perches awkwardly on his knees, offers his hand palm up. While Arthur scowls at them she turns it the other way round and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Then she looks between them expectantly.

"What happened?"

Merlin chews his lip for a moment, glancing at Arthur. Arthur won’t look at him, angles his face away.

"You, mostly," Merlin says at last, flashing a nervous smile. "I mean, I'd started to get a bit of a wind going, but you were incredi– "

"Terrifying," Arthur whispers, tightening his grip on her shoulder.

"Yes, um." With another troubled sideways glance, Merlin gently pulls his hand from her grasp. "Very thorough."

She closes her eyes, remembering the hollowed-out feeling as the last of her fury had drained out her fingertips. She'll get the full account later, but right now all she wants to know is that nothing's been permanently broken between them.

"I won't say I'm sorry," she whispers, opening her eyes, "because it's not true. I'd do it again if need be, but please believe me. Merlin never taught me that; I didn't know I _could._ And Merlin, I didn't mean to force you to…"

She tips her head towards Arthur, pushing her fingers through his sweaty fringe, then stroking down the back of his hair. She sees Merlin tracking the gesture with hungry eyes; when he notices her watching he flushes and looks away.

"You should have let me take the blame," she adds, reaching her other hand out to touch his knee. "For all of it."

"No, I… We were about to lose, badly. I'd come to the same decision. Then Will, the brave idiot, decided to play the hero and I couldn't save him without… you know." He gives a half-hearted wave.

"Magic," Arthur says, bucking Morgana's hand to look up at Merlin. His expression is hard, wounded, but there's no anger left in his voice – just exhaustion. "Magic, the pair of you. There must be something seriously wrong with me."

She knows he means for not seeing it sooner, or perhaps for the irony of the situation – and Merlin's already protesting this, telling him he wasn't supposed to know, that that was the whole point – but she longs to deliberately misunderstand, to tell him that to be loved so by so much powerful magic means that something's seriously _right._

"I never," Merlin goes on, "wanted to put you in an awkward position."

"What the hell do you call this?" Arthur glances at Morgana, clearly exasperated, then back at Merlin. "I disobeyed a direct order from my father to be here. My mere presence could be considered an act of _war._ "

"I know!" Merlin's practically in tears. "But I never asked you to come. I don't understand why – "

" _Because,_ Merlin."

Arthur's gone bright red. If looks could kill Morgana fears Merlin might be dead – save for the fact that she's pretty sure Arthur's scrambling for a way to say "I love you" in an as obscure and face-saving a manner as possible. She finds him beautiful when he is like this, wresting command of the all-out war being waged between his tongue and his heart.

"Because I thought – though it's laughable now – that you needed my help, and though I know Morgana's perfectly capable of looking after herself, there was no way I was letting either of you put yourselves in unnecessary danger if I could help it."

"But your father – "

"Shut up, will you! I'm not – "

"Stop, _stop._ " Her voice is stronger now. She grabs hold of what she can reach – Arthur's chin, Merlin's knee. When she has their attention she looks each of them in the eyes.

"No more secrets," she says. "Please. It's killing me." 

Then, at the stricken looks on their faces she adds, "And of all the many things I've imagined doing with the two of you in a bed, listening to you bicker like a pair of slop-merchants is not one of them. So either play nice and bring me something stronger than water to drink or go help round up the village pigs."

* * *


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur works through his feelings in the usual way, Merlin's magic is tested, and Morgana's patience and cunning are rewarded with her first taste of being the middle spoon.

**SIX**

It takes her two days to recover strength enough to walk and mount her horse unaided. The first day of the return journey Arthur rides and sleeps apart, leaving Morgana and Merlin to exchange worried glances and huddle on their side of the fire. They've been back and forth through the magic whats and whys and when-did-you-knows during her recovery, and Morgana knows that these things are not unimportant to Arthur, but they are miles from where the true danger lies. She hopes he will not let wounded pride get the better of his heart. 

The second day he rises early, bids them wait for him at their campsite, and rides off alone. 

Merlin watches him go with a hangdog expression. "Hunting?" he says.

"Hunting," she agrees. "Definitely hunting."

"Unless he's gone to fetch the nearest patrol, or sell us out to Cenred, or – "

She slings her empty water skin at him. "Shut up, Merlin," she says fondly. Then, "Come, let's go down to the stream and you can tell me how you got the Great Dragon to breathe on that sword. I need his help with something, but all he's ever done when I visit him on my own is mock me or try to goad me into killing Uther."

* * *

Arthur returns well after dark, laden with game. His expression is grim, his knuckles scraped raw and his voice suspiciously hoarse, but he seats himself at Morgana's side while Merlin prepares their supper. He allows her to help tends his wounds and, later, after the pots have been rinsed and Merlin's hovering uncertainly between the fire and the horses, he pats the ground on his other side.

"Come," he says. "Sit. You're making me weary just watching you." 

Merlin does so without his usual backchat, folding his long limbs to sit tailor-style and tucking his hands into his sleeves. Morgana watches Arthur watching him and wonders if he, too, is puzzling over how so much power and compelling mystery can come in such a modest vessel.

After they've been sitting in uneasy silence for some minutes Arthur sighs, says, "So, I've seen what she can do. You show me something – something _not_ terrifying."

Merlin blinks, frowns. "You saw me save Will."

"That was all chanting and laying of hands and your mother singing your praises when he eventually came to. It didn't _look_ like anything much."

Merlin snorts. "Pretty sure my eyes glowed."

"Pretty sure you had them shut."

"Watching me closely, were you?"

"I…" Arthur flounders for a moment before wisely deciding to close his mouth. 

Morgana smiles across him at Merlin and mouths, "Always," just to see the way it makes him go all bashful and sleepy-eyed.

"Um, so what do you want me to do?" he says, pulling his hands from his sleeves. "Time stuff's amazing, but I'm not sure you can see the effects if you're caught up in them, and most of the other spells are – what?"

Arthur's put his head between his knees, muttering as he butts his face into his hands. "You mean to tell me," he says at last, lifting his head, "that you can control _time,_ yet most days you're late with my breakfast?"

Merlin shrugs. "Gaius says I'm not supposed to use it for trivial stuff."

"Oh, breakfast is never trivial to Arthur." Morgana gets an elbow for her trouble, as well as a hesitant smile from Merlin. "I know. The first spell you taught me, remember?"

"Er, what?"

"You did it the other night round the campfire too, before Arthur turned up. Show him that one."

"Yes, Merlin, please do show me the _illegal_ magic you were flaunting so openly instead of keeping proper watch on your camp."

Merlin scowls at them, but he agrees. 

Morgana watches Arthur's expression as Merlin summons an ember from the fire and blows it into a small version of the Pendragon crest that sparkles and snaps and even coughs up a small gout of hissing flame before fading into the air. 

Alarm. Mistrust. Wonder. Confusion. _Recognition._

"Go on," she says to Arthur, "ask him why."

"Um, because you just told me to?" Merlin says, indignant.

"No, why was that the first you thought of?" she amends. "Why, of all the wonders you can do, bother with it at all? It serves no purpose. Mere child's play."

Merlin looks back and forth between them, lips mashed into a stubborn moue.

Arthur glances at Morgana before reaching over and laying a hesitant hand on Merlin's arm. "Why?"

His eyes snap down, staring at Arthur's hand. "I… It's not a game, not to me. It's a reminder."

"Of the family crest?" Arthur gives a hoarse chuckle. "Surely even you aren't that forgetful."

"Of where I belong." Merlin's head jerks up, eyes flashing. "Why I exist, who my magic's _meant for._ "

"That would be you," Morgana says, in case Arthur's intent on not seeing what's right in front of him. But she needn't have bothered, as next thing she knows Arthur's bowled Merlin onto his back and is kneeling astride, clutching Merlin's face in both hands. 

"You _idiot_ ," he's saying. "You foolish, infuriating, _impossible_ …" 

It's headed, she thinks, for either a punch or a kiss. She leaps up, ready to pull Arthur off when he goes for both, one bandaged fist slamming into the ground beside Merlin's head seconds before their mouths come together. 

It's all hunger and frustration at first, nothing sweet or particularly alluring about it, but Morgana finds that she likes the soft noises Merlin's making in the back of his throat, the familiar-but-new way Arthur's fingers seek and find shelter in Merlin's hair.

Merlin doesn't seem to know where to put his hands, and there's something endearing about that, too. She can't wait to show him, not just the where, but the when and the how – to give him the keys to all of Arthur's hidden, tender places.

_Less_ endearing is the way the fire flares suddenly, doubling in height and sending off a great shower of sparks.

"Oh, Merlin, really?" She turns to weave a containment spell. By the time she is through the kiss has ended. They are both watching her, looking appropriately dazed and awkward.

"What was that?" Arthur says.

"Merlin's magic gets a little excited sometimes and – "

"Morgana!"

" – I was ensuring no one's trousers were set on fire. What? Don't look at me like that. It's true, and he'll know soon enough, won't he?" She sees the panic cross from Merlin's face to Arthur's. He hastily scrambles off Merlin and pushes to his feet. 

Too soon, she thinks, dropping her smirk with an inward sigh. She looks them over in exaggerated disdain.

"But not before you've both spent about a week in a bath. Come on, grab the bedrolls and let's get some rest. I want to get an early start – provided there are no more innocent creatures within a day's ride you're intent on slaughtering?"

"I'm meant to be on a hunting trip. I have to have something to show for it."

"Yes, well, I'm meant to be fetching Gwen's rogue of a brother home in case their father's illness takes a turn for the worse, and I've already been gone much longer than I expected, so…"

"Wait," Merlin says, shaking his head. He sits up, brow furrowed. "Tom isn't really ill, is he? You didn't leave – "

" 'Course not," Morgana cuts in, offering him a hand, hauling him to his feet. "Just a story we cooked up. Spur of the moment, given the outbreak of sweating sickness in the lower town."

What she doesn't say is that, while their ruse and her absence will have given Gwen an excuse to spend her days at the forge, she _is_ worried about them. This year's outbreak has been felling the hale and sickly alike; most of them go in a matter of days.

Merlin winces. "Poor Gaius. I should have – "

"It was your _mother._ " It's Arthur who interrupts this time, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. All the awkwardness is gone, replaced by the expression Morgana knows so well, that fierce tenderness and longing, heart practically shining out of his eyes. "You made the only choice you could, Merlin. Don’t you dare second-guess it."

She turns away lest she spook them again. "I'll take first watch," she says.

"The hell you will." Arthur's words are followed by his hand on her neck. She's spun round to face him – finds he's still clinging to Merlin with his other hand – and gifted with that same devastating look.

"Neither of you are leaving my side until we're home safe. So if you're telling me that, between the pair of you, you can't… I don't know, do some sort of watch spell, or hide us from bandits for the night, I'll have you in the stocks for fraud."

* * *

It's a chaste enough affair, like a clothed set of spoons with she in the middle – at Arthur's insistence – and he on the outside. But before they settle she collects a kiss from each of them, Arthur turning his face to catch her lips rather than her cheek after witnessing Merlin's protracted effort. She feels no need whatsoever to compare them, but she knows Arthur would never believe that. And perhaps, she thinks – noting his more judicious use of tongue – a little competition isn’t such a terrible thing.

She closes her eyes, and in the pleasant half-consciousness before sleep her mind spools it out from there: A muddle of striving hands and mouths, her wooden cock and theirs of flesh, and after, yes… 

_Her_ in the middle after they've both been had, after Arthur's eagerly spent himself inside Merlin while impaled on her rod. Her in the middle on her knees with her arse in the air, being kissed above and below, a mouth on her cunt and on her breasts, a hand in her hair, a hand gripping her own. Arthur whispering stories to her for a change, telling her how stiff Merlin is, how desperate, how he'll feast on her with his wicked tongue until he's told he's allowed to stop. And then… 

She drifts off while idly shifting at Merlin's back, thinking how delicious it is to wear trousers that ride up and pull against her cunt. How delicious it will be to take them off and scrub the smell of battle sweat and ash from her skin. How Arthur doesn't seem to mind, given the way he's squeezing her and burrowing his face in the back of her neck.

She sleeps better than she has in weeks. If she dreams, she does not remember them upon waking.

* * *


	7. SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the threesome returns to a panicked Camelot, and Morgana must make a very important decision regarding Uther. Her new BAMF status comes in handy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes emotional and moral crisis and distress related to illness/dying. If anyone would prefer to skip it, there's a brief synopsis of key plot points in the end chapter notes, then off you click to more happytimes.

**SEVEN**

They hear the bells long before they reach the city walls. They don't speak, don't look at one another. One moment they are easing along at a respectable trot; the next it's an all-out gallop. 

As they break from the tree cover she sees smoke. At first she thinks the city's on fire, but Merlin shouts, "They're burning the dead!"

She follows the direction of his outstretched arm towards a spot well beyond the gates. At the sight of the smouldering pyres, she feels the claw down her back, the hand at her throat, a fear too primal for reason. She bends low over her horse's neck, urging her to go faster. From the corner of her eye she sees that Arthur's done the same, keeping pace with her, a blur of bright silver and gold atop his chestnut stallion.

For a moment she feels like she's been here before, just like this, racing with him toward the unknown. Except…

Merlin pulls up along her other flank just as a rider bursts forth from the gates, his red cloak streaming out behind him. It's Sir Leon. As soon as he's in range there's a jumble of shouts, hers among them.

"Gwen! _Gwen._ Leon, you must tell me, is she safe?"

He looks at her, at all of them, with wide, sombre eyes after he's wheeled his horse round. But he gives her a nod – short, distracted – and it is Arthur he's focussed on.

"It's the king, sire. He fell ill two days ago. Everything's been done for him, everything Gaius could think of, but he says it's only a matter of hours. You should come with me, quickly now."

Morgana does not look at Merlin during their headlong dash into the courtyard, nor as they dismount and race up the steps – Arthur leaving them both behind – and along the corridors to Uther's chambers. But once Arthur's barged in past the guard at the door, commanding them to, "Wait here a moment," there's no avoiding it.

She fancies she can hear the dragon laughing.

"Merlin?" she says once she's caught her breath. He looks as if he's been slapped, the colour high on his cheeks, eyes unfocussed. She takes hold of his arm, draws him away from the guard. "We must be prepared. If – "

"Got to get to Gaius," he cuts in, starting to pull away. She tugs him back.

"He'll be in _there_ , with the king."

"But – "

"There's nothing you can do."

She hears raised voices coming from within the king's chambers, a series of dull thuds followed by a crash, a shout – Arthur's.

Merlin's eyes narrow, his expression hardening. He clutches her by the shoulders, saying, "No, but _you_ – " just as the door's wrenched open.

It's Gaius, haggard in appearance but with a face like thunder.

"I think you two had better get in here. Arthur seems to think that – " He stops abruptly, eyeing the guard. "In here. _Now._ "

* * *

Uther is alive, but just. Morgana catches only a glimpse of his flushed, waxy skin and damp bed-linens before Arthur is in her face, clinging to her hands.

"Please, Morgana, he's all we have. There must be _something_ you can do, some charm or – " He turns to Merlin. "What you did with Will, would that work?"

Merlin shakes his head. "No, Arthur, that was… I can mend torn flesh, quicken the pulse, but _this_ – "

"It's as I told you, sire," Gaius says, hovering at Arthur's elbow, "there's nothing to fix. And even if there were, his spirit's too far gone."

"Then get it back!" Arthur roars, letting go of her hands, practically flinging them at her as he stumbles back towards Uther's bed. "Else what's the point of it, all your precious _magic,_ what's any of it good for? Lies? False hope?"

"Arthur – " She starts towards him but he turns away, kneeling at Uther's side. She realises that nothing she has to say could possibly be of any comfort to him, that while her heart is breaking, too, it's at the sight of him so distraught and not at the thought of Uther's passing.

Gaius sighs, shaking his head. "This is what I feared. Merlin, your timing in telling him couldn't have been worse. He sounds just like Uther when…"

"When what, Gaius?" she snaps.

"Exactly!" Merlin says – inexplicably – in an urgent whisper, tearing his gaze from Arthur and gesturing them into the antechamber. "Nimueh, Gaius. What magic was it she used to – "

Gaius cuts him off with a glare and a vehement, "Hush, or you'll get his hopes up all over again! The power of life and death isn't something to be trifled with, and certainly not by the likes of you. Only a High Priestess could save him now, and, more importantly, only at the cost of another's _death,_ Merlin, so – "

"What about twenty?" Merlin interrupts. "Thirty? Would that be enough?"

For a moment Morgana doesn't understand what he's talking about, why he's staring at _her._

"She could do it, Gaius," he goes on. "You should have seen her destroy Kanen's men. She's more powerful than we realised. Surely she's earned a life for all that death. If I helped with the spells, helped her focus the power…"

"Morgana?" Arthur calls. "Merlin?" They look round to find him staring at them over his shoulder, a damp cloth clutched in his hands. His face is blotchy, tear-stained, his brow furrowed. "What is it you're muttering about over there? Come help me bathe his limbs. He's too warm."

* * *

In the end, she cannot do it – cannot bear the wide, lost blue of Arthur's eyes, nor the censure in Merlin's when she first refuses; she cannot bear the sight of Arthur stubbornly bathing a brow that no longer sweats, nor Merlin's urgent pleading.

"For Arthur's sake," he says. "Please, my lady, after all that we've kept from him, let us try and give him this. Show him how beautiful magic can be, how… What was it you said to me once?" He cocks his head, frowning. "How it sings in your veins, charges the very air in the room."

She opens her mouth to tell him he's wrong, that he's misremembered. That she hadn't been talking about magic then, but _love_ , and – 

Oh, she thinks. _Oh._

She reaches for Merlin's hands.

"Show me what I need to do."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trio return to Camelot to find that Uther is gravely ill. Morgana is inclined to let nature take its course, but Arthur's distress, Merlin's arguments, and her own realisation about the strength of her love for them convince her to help save him (using her newly-discovered High Priestess-class powers of life and death).


	8. EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana spends the entire chapter on her back - no, not like _that_ \- Gaius' cooking is impugned, the Triple Crown is revealed and Arthur makes an important speech which does _not_ include the word "love."

**EIGHT**

She wakes in Arthur's bed, feels a familiar stab of panic until she sees that it's day, that the bed curtains are open and Gwen's seated at the table with a pile of mending. When she notices Morgana's awake her face brightens, then clouds over.

"Never again," she says hotly, setting her work aside and pushing back from the table. "I don't care if it's my own father, you must promise me you'll _never_ do anything like that again. You looked like death on his worst day when they brought you down, and you've been unconscious for a _week._ " 

She's standing by the bed at this point. Morgana can see more than one kind of relief amongst all the other emotions playing out on her face, knows well who's been tending to her this whole while. She reaches for her hand, squeezes it, presses a kiss to her knuckles with lips that feel dry as paper.

"Thank you for staying," she says. "Might I trouble you for some water?"

Gwen's fierce expression wavers, melts. She squeezes back. "Of course, my lady. Then I must go fetch the penitents before someone wears a hole in the floor…or Uther sees them hugging."

"Hugging?"

Gwen nods, looking like a cat in the cream. "It's sweet, really. Arthur never seems to know how to start, so he just sort of looms nearby with this look on his face – "

"The pining-out-a-window one?"

"More like he needs the chamber pot. Begging your pardon."

Morgana chuckles, makes a dismissive gesture. "Oh, I know that one, too. And how long does Merlin wait before taking pity on him?"

Gwen's smile fades. "Not long at all, my lady," she says softly. "They've been – we've all been – through a lot. The sickness is on the wane in the lower town, but we've lost Geoffrey and Lady Beaumains, several of the guard, and a good third of the kitchen staff. I think Merlin's in need of the comfort just as much as Arthur."

Sighing, Morgana releases Gwen's hand and rolls onto her back. "And Uther?"

"Alive. Not entirely well, but… It is good to see them sit together, he and Arthur. I think they have much to talk about."

"Yes, I expect so," Morgana says. 

Yes indeed, she thinks as she sips the water Gwen brings her. 

"Oh, but I nearly forgot – " Gwen turns back from the door. "The crown's ready. Well, the pieces. They're in your rooms, if you'd like me to fetch them on the way back?"

"Thank you, but they'll keep 'til tomorrow," she says. Then, "No, on second thought, would you?" She wants Arthur and Merlin to see them, to understand her intent, know the sort of future she's offering. 

After Gwen has gone and Morgana's finished her water, she lies back against Arthur's mound of pillows. She'll just rest her eyes, she thinks, just for a moment.

* * *

She wakes because she is too bloody hot. It's night now; the candles are lit. There's something pinning her legs and half her hair, her arm's asleep and there's a powerful scent of – 

"Hello."

Morgana blinks, scrunching up her nose at the steam rising from the bowl in Merlin's hands.

"Gaius thought you might be hungry."

"Not for _that._ What is it, garlic toad?"

Merlin smiles, shrugs. "Quite possibly. Though I wouldn't rule out onion and unwashed socks." He disappears from view. It's then that Morgana realises that it's Arthur who's pinning her, sleeping with an arm and a leg flung across her and his head trapping her hair against the pillow. He snuffles, turns his face towards her, blinking at her with bleary eyes.

" 'S a lie," he mumbles. He drags his hand to his mouth, huffs a breath into it and inhales – then tries to clap it over her nose. "See? Nothing like socks."

She swats at him with her half-dead arm as Merlin bursts out laughing. "Not your breath, genius, the soup… And get _off,_ stop drooling on my hair."

"Not my fault." Arthur takes an exaggerated whiff before rolling over, onto his back. "Gwen put that stuff on it that makes it smell of pastry. She – " He sits up, yawning, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he comes fully awake. "Gwen said… Merlin, get the box, will you?"

Morgana watches, curious, as Merlin crosses to the table. He returns with a plain rosewood box, long and flat, and she recalls her earlier conversation with excitement. 

"She unlocked it, but made us swear we wouldn't peek on pain of branding."

"Splendid." She accepts the box on her lap and gestures for Merlin to sit beside her. He hesitates, so she says drily, "Arthur, will you please either invite Merlin into your bed or inform him of my authority to do so?"

"Sit, Merlin. But take off your boots first."

" _Not_ a dog," Merlin mutters, but he obeys.

She lifts the lid, silently blessing Gwen and Tom at the sight that greets her. There they are, side by side, each ring of a slightly different diameter and thickness, each with its own texture and shine – the hard glint of the silver and the warm glow of the gold, the small facets of the beaten copper that make it seem as if its colour is in flux, constantly shifting and scattering the reflected candlelight. They're nestled in a lining of rich purple velvet, and Gwen's even tucked Morgana's original sketch into one corner.

"Impressive craftsmanship, but a bit fine for tilting. What're they for?" Arthur shifts closer, and Morgana holds up a peremptory hand.

"Don’t touch. Not yet." She unfolds the sketch and passes it to Merlin. "I saw it in one of my dreams. All together, like this, see? For when we can't be with him, but with the right magic, it splits – "

" – into these," Merlin finishes for her, looking up, eyes bright. He places his fingertips reverently beside the copper ring. "That's what you want the dragon's breath for, to help with the initial joining?"

She nods, repelling Arthur's attempt to reach across her and grab the parchment from Merlin's hand. 

"It's ingenious," Merlin says. He turns his eyes on her. "It's _perfect._ "

"Perfect for what?" Arthur says irritably. "Would you two stop mooning at one another and tell me – "

"Your new sword, Arthur," Merlin cuts in. "The one Uther used to defeat the Black Knight."

"The one you won't let me have back until I'm king, what of it?"

Merlin smiles, passing Arthur the scrap of parchment. "That was forged of a unique magic, as this will be."

"It's…" Arthur studies the sketch. "An odd-looking crown?"

" _Your_ crown," Merlin corrects.

"And ours," Morgana adds, giving in and running a finger along the shining curve of silver, "if you'll have us beside you, let us share the burden."

Merlin shifts onto his knees. "Arthur, with this crown and Excalibur you will be – and I mean no disrespect to your father – the _greatest_ king this land has ever known."

Arthur makes no immediate reply, and she glances up to find him staring at them with an unfathomable expression. It rather takes her breath away; after all this time she'd thought to have fathomed them all.

Arthur refolds the sketch, places it on the velvet in the centre of the gold ring, and commandeers the box from Morgana's lap. She holds her tongue while he runs a hand over its contents.

"You fools," he says at last, shaking his head. "You _incredible_ fools." In one swift move he closes the lid and sets the box aside, then turns onto his hip. He takes her near hand in his own, reaches across her to grab Merlin by the neckerchief. 

"Arthur," she says. Some of her nerve must come through in her voice, for he gives her hand a squeeze.

"I would have you beside me were I a woodcutter," he says, holding her gaze for a long moment before looking at Merlin. "With or without your powers. Do you not see that? Do you not see that between the pair of you, you… You hold my… _this._ " He looses Merlin to thump the left side of his breast. "And _if_ I am a great king, it'll be – above all – because you and the people believe in me, not because of a crown or a sword."

Oh, Morgana thinks, squeezing Arthur's hand. Then, I love you, too.

Merlin's blinking at him as if he's not sure what he's hearing. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. He cocks his head. "Does that mean, sire, that I can leave Excalibur at the bottom of the lake?"

"You threw my sword in a… _Merlin!_ " Arthur lunges across her before she can pull her legs out of the way.

"Off, _off!_ " Morgana cries, shoving at them. "And by the gods, Merlin, _never_ call him sire in bed again or we'll never fit his head in that crown!"

* * *


	9. NINE & EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana spends the entire chapter in bed - YES LIKE THAT - seeing how reality compares to her fantasies, and there is an epilogue, which does its handy-glimpse-of-the-future thing.

**NINE**

Their first time is nothing like her pillow stories, nothing like her dreams. It's all very vocal, for one thing. There is a great deal of laughter to start, banter and sass as Merlin works through his nerves at being the object of so much intense, intimate focus – Morgana mapping the planes of his torso and the jut of his hipbones, pressing on his tight little nipples and dragging fingers through his thick, dark hair – and Arthur works through his nerves at Merlin's actually being there, naked, in his bed.

Merlin's _not_ hung like a horse, as it happens, but he's got eager length enough, plus a fat set of balls and a bottom so high and firm Morgana can't help but pinch it, prompting a startled yelp. 

That's another thing. She realises she doesn't know Merlin's body as she does Arthur's – can't yet read his subtle language of gesture and breath – and must needs actually _ask._

"No?" she says. Merlin's in her arms with Arthur at her back; he's been using her as a shield of sorts, oddly shy about touching Merlin now that it's progressed from their usual manhandling.

Merlin pulls back from where he'd been kissing her neck, lips curving in a sly smile. "Not without warning."

"Duly noted," she says. Then, putting her lips to his ear, "Merlin, I'm going to pinch your pretty little bottom now," and does it again. His hips jerk, cock spearing her belly. Behind her, Arthur's breath goes ragged; she feels him grow fully hard.

"Do you want to see the marks I've made?" She cups Merlin's arse, turns her head back towards Arthur. "His skin's so pale, like mine, bet you could – _oh._ "

Arthur cuts her off with a passionate kiss to the back of her neck, his arms forcefully threaded under hers to grip her breasts, cupping them, offering them to Merlin.

"Go on," he says, thumbing her nipples into stiff peaks. "Suck. Seen you staring at feasts."

"I…"

"She loves it. Gets her all wet."

"And it gets _you_ off," she retorts, arching against Arthur. "Don't you dare come on my back. Merlin can – "

"Suck your tits while I watch."

"Perhaps he'd rather suck something el– " 

" _Merlin,_ " Merlin cuts in, licking at Morgana's breast, Arthur's spread fingers, "is right…um…here, and only has one… _mmm._ Mouth. One. Pity." He moves to her other breast, this time brushing his palm over her nipple and Arthur's fingers before laving them with his tongue.

He gets them both squirming and breathing heavily before lifting his face and kissing her, skimming a hand across her jaw to reach for Arthur's face.

"Gonna have to learn how to share," he murmurs. His eyes are warm, sleepy, his thick lashes seeming to drag at his eyelids. He shifts his focus to Arthur, beyond her shoulder; whatever he sees there makes him catch his breath, lips parting, eyes going wide. 

"Not relaxing, is he?" she whispers.

Merlin gives a minute shake of his head. 

"Shall we make him?"

"Oh yes _please,_ " Merlin whispers back.

* * *

Arthur's protests are less than convincing with Merlin's cheeks hollowed out around two of his fingers, less still after they are rearranged so she's holding him between her thighs, propped up against the pillows, and Merlin's eyeing him up and down like he's the last bit of roast pork.

"Warning you now," Merlin says, crawling between Arthur's legs, kneeling there, running his hands slowly up Arthur's thighs. "I plan to make up for all the times I've helped dress you, but couldn't touch you like this." He splays his hands on Arthur's chest, smooths them down the bunched muscle and slight swell of his belly, curls a hand around his jutting cock.

She feels Arthur tense, buttocks clenching, breath hissing out from between gritted teeth.

"Or this," Merlin whispers, scooting back onto his stomach and lowering his head.

It's Morgana who moans at the sight – fat pink lips wrapped round fat pink cock, all of Merlin's long back on display, almost graceful like this, his pale bottom and hairy thighs flexing as he unconsciously grinds against the sheets – and yes, this _is_ straight out of one of her fantasies. She tenses her own groin muscles in sympathy, slides her hands down to cover Arthur's where he's gripping his thighs. 

"Good?" she says, kissing his shoulder, and gets a winded grunt in reply.

Merlin pulls almost all the way off, playing with the velvet sleeve of skin that used to fascinate Morgana so. He drags it up and down in the circle of his finger and thumb, tonguing it, sucking it partway back up over the broad tip until Arthur hisses.

"Touch him," she murmurs as Merlin slides back down. She pries Arthur's left hand from his thigh, waits until he's tentatively stroking the side of Merlin's face – fingers fumbling over his temple, his ear, the nap of his hair – before giving in to her own desires. She keeps her left hand on his thigh, kneading the powerful muscle as she wedges her right between them; touching him as she tugs at herself, now palming his belly, now fondling his balls. 

The effort it takes to keep her left hand gentle while she's rubbing out a punishing rhythm with her right keeps her from spilling over the edge. The wet, greedy noises Merlin's making threaten to push her over. What finally does it is the way Arthur's body starts to convulse, his balls drawing up, his fingers blindly scrabbling at Merlin's hair – the way he grits out her name in that way that means he wants to hear her come, wants to feel her shudder, wants all the wet she has for him smeared onto his skin.

This time, though, it's as if something's shaken loose, for he goes on speaking. It's so low and slurred she doesn’t recognise the words at first, but he keeps it up, like a chant.

"Fuck me," he's saying. "Come on, please, fuck me. _Fuck me._ "

She cries out, finishing in a series of sharp jerks. When she opens her eyes, Merlin's pulled back, wild-eyed, pupils ringed with gold.

"What should – " 

"No, just like this," she says, panting. She pulls her left leg up, urging Arthur down onto his side, urging Merlin to lie opposite, head to toe, and take him back in his mouth. She drags her hand between her legs, up her slick, swollen cunt; then, on a whim she stretches her hand across Arthur's hip.

"Spit on my hand." 

Merlin pulls off again, nostrils flaring wide at her scent. The bed curtains sway. Out beyond them, there is a series of rattles and thumps.

"You're going to…" He makes an "ngh" noise as his throat works. He spits, licks his lips.

"Next time it can be your cock if you like," she says, thumbing as much of the fluid as she can onto two fingers and lovingly screwing them into Arthur's hole. "Or I can use my harness, show you how it's done." When she finds what she's looking for, she kisses the meat of Arthur's arse, keeping her eyes on Merlin. The noises out in the room grow louder.

"Like so," she mouths, starting up a slow, steady rhythm that makes Arthur's cock leak and mouth fall open. Aloud, she says, "Don't break any windows."

Her wrist aches, but it's worth it to finally see Arthur let go, completely, and to see the wonder on Merlin's face as he witnesses it, the tenderness with which he resumes suckling the tip of Arthur's cock.

He must be aching for his own release, Morgana thinks, but she's happy to let that be his own affair for the moment – or Arthur's, given their positions. She focuses on the grip of Arthur's body on her fingers, on the way his hips judder when he wants to take over. 

She lets him, as does Merlin, opening wide and going still. Arthur ruts between the two of them, arse clenching and hips snapping until he's coming with a grunt and a stop-start siezing of limbs, Morgana's fingers squeezed impossibly tight, Merlin trying desperately to swallow despite the obstruction. 

He fails quite splendidly, trickles of spend leaking from the corners of his mouth and dribbling all down his chin. 

"That's a good look on you," she says, rubbing Arthur through the last of it, then easing her fingers out. "Though it'd be better if you made him lick it off." 

Arthur reaches back to swat at her half-heartedly, mumbling something incoherent as his body goes lax.

* * *

Normally this would be the near finish, the part where they sprawl wherever they've ended up in the bed, chatting idly or drifting off until Morgana rouses herself to return to her rooms. But, as Morgana soon realises, with a third it's quite different.

Merlin fetches her a cup of water and a cloth to wipe down with; he coaxes Arthur under the covers and to move so he's not lying across the entire bed. And when she starts stretching and casting about for her shift, he pulls her into his arms, boldly kissing her breasts.

"You're not leaving, are you? You're meant to stay here for the duration of your recovery."

"Am I not recovered?"

He smiles. "In rude health, my lady, but no one's expecting you to move rooms in the middle of the night and I – " He shimmies down, kissing her belly, her hip. "I would see you recovered quite _thoroughly._ "

"Ah. And you?" she says, peering down. He's half-hard, but she has no idea if he's coming or going. "Have you blasted all of Arthur's damn trophies off the walls and set fire to the drapes, or are you still in need of some attention?"

Beside them, Arthur snorts, lifting his head from the pillow. "You two sound ridiculous. Merlin, quit trying to flirt and tell her you're dying to taste her cunt. And _you_ lie back and enjoy it. And give me a little more credit. He's been well taken care of."

Merlin grins and makes a rapid pulling-off gesture. "While you were doing that wonderful thing with your fingers."

"Ah, well. Arthur, bonus points for coordination under duress."

"More like a bit of random squeezing," Merlin whispers, "but it was _him,_ so…"

"All in the wrist. Champion of Camelot," is all Arthur says to that, turning away from them and snuggling back into his pillow. 

But as Merlin finds his way between her spread thighs, exploring, then sucking her cunt as he did Arthur's cock, she feels Arthur's arm snake out, his hand groping for her own beneath the covers. When he finds it, he entwines his fingers in hers, and together they breathe through her mounting pleasure.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

She never thought to be anyone's mother, anyone's wife – nor anyone's nurse. Yet the new Uther, the one brought back from the brink of death with the most powerful – and, she is told, beautiful – magic she and Merlin had yet worked together proves to be surprisingly pleasant company during her heavy confinement.

He eats little, but she's ravenous, so she's more than happy to help, and they both rely heavily on chamber pots. When they are not eating or answering nature's call, they sit with their swollen feet up in front of the windows, Morgana spilling from her chair and Uther sunk into his, talking quietly while Gwen sews over by the fire.

They have a vast array of subjects they've agreed to leave in the past, preferring instead to discuss the new crop of knights, debate the merits of last week's bard, or the best way to settle a frightened horse. Occasionally she slips and calls him "Father," but the only reaction she gets is a slight frown, or the rattle of his cutlery against the plate as his hand trembles.

There are some secrets, she thinks, that Uther will take to his grave. 

"He is not Arthur's," is all she'd said when they'd first given him the news, she and Arthur clutching hands by his bedside, Merlin hovering just behind, "but I _will_ be queen, and this child will be raised as Pendragon heir."

There'd been a long, horrible wait – long, agonising moments of watery eyes fixed on their hands and her belly, his sunken mouth chewing words that never came – before he'd summoned the old charming smile. Thin, but genuine.

"A son?" he'd said at last, blinking the tears from his eyes. "An heir. But this is wonderful news, my dear."

Mordred, he is called. Chubby. Black-haired. Born six months before his grandfather's quiet passing, and on the very day Merlin returns from his quest, bearing a single large egg, blue as their eyes and shaped like a tear. 

He will never remember a world without magic and dragons, nor a time when Camelot didn't flourish under the Triple Crown and its round table court. 

He'll never recall a time when he didn't have two fathers bickering about sides of the bed and who snores, and a mother who often rises before dawn – leaving them both snoring, more tangled in one another than the sheets – to take him out riding, teaching him to love every inch of the kingdom he will inherit… But not until she and Lady du Lac and his fathers are through with it.

It's not the shabbiest of fates.

**333~333~333**

**Author's Note:**

> **More on tags and warnings - CONTAINS SPOILERS:**
> 
> Ages at start of sexual contact are 14 (Arthur) and 16 (Morgana), when they are as-yet unaware of their half-sibling status. The details of this are never explicitly confirmed in the text, but the relationship continues after Arthur is aware it's a possibility and Morgana believes it to be true. Pregnancy is not the result of Arthur/Morgana incest. 
> 
> The primary sexual pairing portrayed "live" in the fic, as opposed to those alluded to or explored via fantasies, is between Arthur and Morgana, and - from a modern perspective - features gender play, elements of femdom and what some might call "non-traditional" or "queer" het sex. There are also scenes where Morgana and Merlin flirt, touch and kiss prior to the endgame Arthur/Merlin/Morgana threesome. Gwen/Lancelot is largely implied. 
> 
> Dysphoria tag is for Morgana's general dissatisfaction/disagreement with normative gender roles and the Camelot status quo under Uther, as well as for masculinization play and other speech, acts and thoughts about bodies/roles/desires that arise during Morgana's evolving sexual relationship with Arthur (and later Merlin) - which may be body dysphoria triggering for some.
> 
> Apart from Kanen & Co. (the baddies from S1ep10, "Moment of Truth") character deaths are offscreen/non-graphic.
> 
> **More inspiration:**
> 
> I would be remiss if I did not mention two other pieces of Alby's pretty that I stared at lots while working on this (both Morgana/Arthur):
> 
> [The Young Gods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/921109)
> 
> [Little Bird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1130515) (which was inspired by Giselleslash's gorgeous fic [Fly Away Little Bird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1129437))
> 
> If you enjoyed this pairing or any part thereof, I would highly encourage you to spend some time exploring the works that come up under the relevant pairing tags and leaving kudos/comment love. There are people who have written far more sophisticated, moving plots, and filthier, hotter porn than I with these three - but I couldn't resist adding to the pot for love of Alby with my typical "I want to play too, let's mash up all the things and slap a dash of daytime telly and bad romance novel cover on it!" approach. :-)


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